Surrogate
by blackmare
Summary: Wilson had played many roles in his life, but none quite so unusual as this. Short fic based on Dream Jimmy by DIYSheep. Wilson and House. Not slash. Peculiar but harmless.


_**Surrogate**_

Wilson never knew quite what to think of this one thing he sometimes did for House. When he did think of it he supposed that stranger things had happened, although he could hardly imagine what they were; alien abductions and cases of spontaneous human combustion, perhaps.

It had started at four-eighteen one chilly morning, when Wilson woke up with his left arm numb because his shoulder had fallen into that Exactly Wrong Spot on House's sofa. House had given him an extra beer or two the previous evening, ensuring that Wilson would be far too lazy and slightly too buzzed to drive home. This harmless little manipulation was a fairly common occurrence; so was the resulting need to get up and pee at four-something o'clock.

He'd just shut off the bathroom light and was drying his hands when he heard the sound coming from House's room. It wasn't much, just a soft, distressed little exclamation, but it was--odd. House often made noise in his sleep, growling or moaning or cursing in unconscious pain. This was something else, and while Jimmy, the friend, could've ignored it, Wilson, the doctor, couldn't. There were too many things that could go physically wrong with House. Wilson wasn't about to dismiss it and risk finding out later that he should have paid attention.

So he crept into the room, quietly, because it was probably nothing and House would _not_ thank him for interrupting what little rest he managed to get. From the streets, enough light filtered in so that Wilson could see quite well: House was curled tight on his left side and his eyes were open, staring straight ahead. The blankets lay in a tangled heap at the foot of the bed and House was shivering. He was dreaming, his expression tense and frightened, and Wilson would've bet a thousand dollars that in the dream, House was still a little kid.

Wilson straightened out the mess of blankets and then drew them around his friend, and softly checked the pulse rate at the wrist. It was rapid, as one might expect in a stressful dream, but the startling thing was that the touch registered in House's brain, and a moment later Wilson found himself caught. House's hand shot out and grabbed onto Wilson's t-shirt, pulling at it. His eyes were still open, but unfocused. Whatever the dream was, it was remarkably powerful, no doubt fueled by all the narcotics in House's system.

House tucked his chin and looked down as if in shame, but he didn't let go. His grip was so tight that there was no way for Wilson to free himself without waking House up--and then he'd have had to explain what he was doing in the room in the first place. That wasn't a pleasant prospect, so he resigned himself and stretched out onto the edge of the bed, propping himself on one elbow and softly rubbing House's shoulder, hoping to soothe away the dream so that House would release him.

"It's all right," he said, very quietly. "I'm here. It's all right."

"Hurts," whispered House, in the voice of a very large and badly injured kindergartener. But House wasn't clutching at his leg, he was clutching at Wilson, pulling ever harder on the shirt. Whatever hurt, Wilson suspected it was long in the past, beyond the reach of any medicine on earth. Therefore, he reluctantly decided to administer the only apparent remedy. He slid beneath the blankets and inched closer, answering the plea of that grasping, dreaming hand. The result was astonishing. House shut his eyes and shoved his heavy head right into Wilson's chest, murmuring out muffled little syllables full of pain and loss.

Wilson lay still for a moment, blinking. What had he gotten himself into? House wasn't relaxing and he wasn't letting go, so Wilson gently pushed his own knees against House's until House, still shivering, began to unclench. Wilson tensed in fear of what his friend would do if he were to wake up now, but House remained in the dream and Wilson felt him release a tiny, shuddering sob. _Oh, to hell with it_, Wilson thought, and shifted until he could get both arms around House and ease him into an embrace, into the safety House was seeking. It was amazingly like comforting a frightened child; the same thing Wilson used to do, so long ago, when his baby brother had nightmares. He knew how it worked, and so he began to stroke House's hair, the hand running in slow, easy rhythm down the back of his head. House nestled into that touch and began to relax at last. His breathing evened out, his eyes stayed closed, and his hand gradually loosened its hold on Wilson's shirt.

It was almost five by the time Wilson finally, very carefully, managed to extricate himself and go back to his own makeshift bed. Sleep had left him, though; his whole mind was occupied with the incredibly weird thing that had just happened. _The weird thing I just did_, he corrected himself. _I let House think I was his mommy. Or maybe I was Stacy, and in either case it's truly abnormal and thank God he didn't wake up. I'd be dead by now._ At least Wilson knew it was a one-time thing. There was no way it'd ever happen again.

Two months later, late one Thursday afternoon, Wilson walked into his own office and found House curled into a rigid ball on the sofa. House was in the middle of a particularly difficult case and he'd been utterly exhausted the last time Wilson had seen him, so it wasn't a big surprise to find him passed out on this, the nearest available couch. However, despite the warmth of Wilson's office, House was shivering. His eyes were closed this time, not open as they had been before, but Wilson realized that House was having that mysterious, potent dream again.

Wilson considered his options. The easiest thing would be to just let it alone, but all those tense muscles would mean that House would wake up in a great deal of pain. He'd take it out on everyone around him; he wouldn't be able to think as well as he wanted and his patient might suffer for that; and he'd take yet more Vicodin on top of the too-high dose that he'd already been taking. Wilson could've stopped the dream by waking House up, but the lack of sleep would've led to similar results.

He sighed, unplugged the phone on his desk, locked the office door and tested the waters, gently touching House's shoulder. When House didn't wake, Wilson proceeded to carefully uncurl House's body and arrange himself in that too-narrow space beside House on the sofa. Once again Wilson held onto him until the shivering stopped and House relaxed and let go of the handful of shirt he had grabbed as soon as Wilson had laid down. It was the only thing Wilson could've done to help, and so he'd done it. Just the one more time.

As he quietly slipped out of the office, Wilson wondered again about the real nature of the dream. He knew he was standing in for someone House had once needed, or maybe still did need, and he'd never know who it was. An affectionate grandparent, perhaps. He certainly couldn't ever ask, and chances were that he wouldn't really want to know. It didn't seem quite so weird if the details were missing. If Wilson were taking on the role of, say, Granny Greta House, he would've preferred to remain in the dark about that.

Several more months passed. Hellish months, all in all. They'd gotten through it, but only just. And then the divorce papers finally were signed and Wilson was about to move out of the hotel and into his new apartment. It was House's idea to go out to celebrate, and as usual it was House who got rather more drunk than Wilson. They took a cab back to House's place and House lurched off to bed, with a nonchalant wave at the sofa. "Camp out, O Bedouin comrade," he said. "Friends don't let friends crash their dumb yuppie cars."

Wilson smiled and went to the closet where the spare pillows and blankets were stowed. He arranged things as he always did and then realized he was hungry, so he made a sandwich and watched a bit of bad television while he ate and then, feeling sleepy at last, went to brush his teeth.

Passing by House's open bedroom door, he couldn't help seeing inside and at once he knew what was up. That stiff, trembling fetal position could only mean one thing. It was bizarre, considering how happy House had been an hour ago, but House was nothing if not mercurial. Wilson took a deep breath. He knew what to do about this, but it was so strange to do it, to play adoptive mother to this forceful, fierce, brilliant man. Yet the creature who lay there now, alone and apparently terrified--that too was House. Wilson was somewhat alarmed to realize that he was losing the discomfort he'd originally felt about handling these little episodes. He surprised himself with how easily he was able to persuade his sleeping friend to uncurl. It was as if it were becoming a familiar thing for House, too; he grabbed Wilson's old t-shirt as he'd done before, and seemed to shift himself to accept the hug from whoever it was he thought was there. There was that murmuring again as House's fingers twisted and pulled at the shirt fabric, wanting more. Wilson gave, coming a bit closer while some detached part of his brain considered that this was a fascinating thing to observe.

The detachment broke completely when House finally mumbled one word that made sense:

"Jimmy."

Wilson froze, and then wrapped House up in his arms just as tight as he dared. _Go to sleep, House, just go to sleep, for real_. He could feel the little crying hiccups, so subtle, as House continued trying to talk. The few sounds that escaped had a desperate, pleading inflection. House had given him a great many shocks over the years, but nothing like this. He'd never seen House try to win approval from anyone except his father. Not once had Wilson considered that his own approval, his acceptance, could have meant much at all. Yet here he was with House clinging to him like a little boy begging forgiveness for some imagined slight. Forgiveness, and not from his father. Wilson cupped his hand at the back of House's head and tenderly caressed him, stroking the unruly hair. It worked just as it had before; he felt House drinking in the comfort and falling slowly into that deep sleep he so badly needed.

Wilson stayed just a little longer than he had to. This time, he didn't even bother pretending to himself that he wouldn't do it again.


End file.
